


The Turn around the Bend, the House with a Light on

by jonasnightingale



Series: Heavy Accents & Swollen Ankles [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Rollisi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22166632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonasnightingale/pseuds/jonasnightingale
Summary: He hasn’t taken a steady breath in almost 24 hours. Since Liv called him with panic and sympathy and trepidation in her voice. He’d managed to fake a smile for Jesse and Billie as he drove them to the safety of Staten Island and his mothers warm kitchen, but he can practically feel his hair turning grey with worry, the new grooves etching themselves into his skin. When Liv places a gentle hand on his shoulder he has to fight back the tears. But they’ve got her back. Now they just need her to wake up...21x10 spec fic.
Relationships: Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr. & Amanda Rollins, Dominick "Sonny" Carisi Jr./Amanda Rollins
Series: Heavy Accents & Swollen Ankles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1595524
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	The Turn around the Bend, the House with a Light on

He hasn’t taken a steady breath in almost 24 hours. Since Liv called him with panic and sympathy and trepidation in her voice. He’d managed to fake a smile for Jesse and Billie as he drove them to the safety of Staten Island and his mothers warm kitchen, but he can practically feel his hair turning grey with worry, the new grooves etching themselves into his skin. When Liv places a gentle hand on his shoulder he has to fight back the tears. But they’ve got her back. Now they just need her to wake up.

She’s still unconscious and her pale form is spotted with bruises but the steady beep of the monitors bring him comfort. His eyes trace her face, catalogue every scratch. His thumb runs gently across her knuckles as if they’re rosary beads, a quiet prayer. These past weeks he’s been filled with a kind of longing, a void within him that grew in the days without silent conversations and nights without the clatter of toddlers. It brings the bubble of affection right back up to his throat. The emotion so strong he could almost choke on it. 

She emerges slowly, groggy, with a groan. And he’s right there, hand clutching hers desperately, leaning from the edge of his chair to meet her eyes with his own bloodshot gaze. She furrows her brow and runs her spare hand across her face, muttering an uncertain “hi”. His responding “hi” comes out wet, raspy, halfway between a laugh and a sob, and she flips her hand over to squeeze his on instinct. So much of their history has been like this, small gestures, gentle hands where words have failed them. 

As her consciousness becomes clearer he sees the fear flit across her face. And while she moves to sit up taller, he answers before she asks; “Jesse and Billie are fine - they’re with my Ma back home. And Franny of course. In true Italian style; she’s apparently teaching them to make ravioli.” He fishes out his phone and brings up the photo with a guffaw. Her eyes go soft, the relaxed slope of them he sees only occasionally, and then her free hand is on his jaw, her lips pressing softly against his. It’s short and she’s already pulled away by the time he registers what is happening. He’s blinking idiotically with jaw slack as she watches him through lowered lashes. He tilts his head, unsure if to return the gesture or ask a question, when the nurse bustles into the room. “Welcome back Miss Rollins. You gave everyone quite the fright.”

By the time she’s cleared for discharge he’s determined not to bring it up. She’s always been the type to act on impulse, he knows this and he loves her for it; it’s not fair to hold her to an action after the day she’d had. He knows it doesn’t automatically mean what he wished it would. So he ignores it, pushes it down, lets it add to the weight in his gut he carries from day to day.

The unis drop off her family (with a dish of lasagne courtesy of Mama Carisi) and he lingers in the doorway, reticent to have her out of his sights again. “Well I’ll leave you to see the girls. Call me if you need anything at all a’right? Anything.” “We’ll be fine. Thank you, Carisi… really.” He stands in her hallway, waits til he hears every lock click into place, and tries to remind himself to breath. She’s safe, she’s home. He should call his mother, but he knows the pity waiting at the other end of the line. He should go change his outfit, but he can’t bear his empty apartment tonight. He walks until he finds a bar. He sits, and drinks, and tries to not think about her blood on the concrete floor, or her therapist eyeing him with a loaded “so you’re Carisi”, or the cold dread still thrumming through his veins. He sits and he tries to convince himself she’s okay. 

It’s two hours later and he’s still nursing his first beer. The free fries sent his way by the waiter sit untouched. He pulls up a message to send her that photo and those three little dots greet him. They disappear and reappear in quick succession. His heart rate kicks back up. Abandoning his beer he quickly taps out a ‘Okay?’ and thrums his fingers on the bar in wait. The dots appear and disappear twice more before the reply, ‘Could you come over?’ He’s out the door in a flash. 

He knocks quietly, conscious of the girls who are hopefully asleep. And when she pulls open the door his eyes instantly dart across the apartment to inspect any threats. His hand goes on instinct to where his holster would be, only to find it empty, as the other wraps around her arm. “You okay?” He’s mildly aware that his voice is higher than its usual timbre, its pace still bubbling with anxiety. She nods. He takes a gulp of air, exhales slowly, meets her eye and smiles, “Good.” 

She’s showered and her still damp hair clings to her exposed collar bone. Her feet are bare and her pyjamas baggy, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look so soft. It’s not a word he associates with her often; with her sharp accent and spine of steel, she hides it well. 

And then she takes a step forward. And her arms are stretching around him, pulling their torsos together tightly. One hand reaches across his back whilst the other runs slowly through his hair. Her face tucks into the crook of his shoulder and he feels her shudder in a breath. His eyes pull closed and he wraps his body tightly around her, the desperation of the past day leaking through. His own breathing stutters uncertainly. He could get lost in this moment - with the rise and fall of her chest against his, the fingers slowly working against his scalp. She withdraws with a sleeved hand brushing deftly across her eyes, offers him a drink. His “yeah” comes out rough, and she throws him a half-smile. 

They’re settled on the couch, Franny sprawled across their laps, trash TV throwing colour across them. It’s been a while since they’d done this, and he realises with a start that maybe she wasn’t so wrong to accuse him of walking out on her. But with her knee pressing against his thigh and her head resting beside his fingers, he thinks maybe she’s forgiven him. And he thinks maybe he could be content with this. The TV episode clicks over and they manage laughter at the reality drama it presents them. Maybe this could be enough.

The shadows are long out the window. The world padded in a near-muteness that indicates the late hour. The shadows beneath their eyes are long too. He puts their bottles in the bin, picks up his coat, and turns to her watching him from hooded eyes on the couch. “Well I should…” he puts his arms through the sleeves and tries to find the right words to say, there’s many things he wants to say - “thanks for not dying”, “I’ve never been so scared in my life”, “tonight was nice”, “I don’t want to leave” - but instead he just shakes his head and gives her a quirked smile. She stands and pads towards him. He’s spent years learning to read this woman, and he knows the indecision hidden in the small bite of her lip. The moment feels loaded somehow, the silent night air pushing down upon them. She doesn’t look at him as the word comes out quietly, “Stay,” and the breath catches in his throat. The seconds tick by before she looks up at him and there’s an uncertainty, a fear, on her face that shatters his heart, “not just tonight”. 

He’s thrown back to warm southern breeze and the high of a bar fight; to her leaning against a doorframe and looking at him with a maybe in her eyes. He had meant so much with those three words - a tentative hope for a future, a confession beyond what he meant to share - and she had turned away. But he doesn’t. He meets her gaze and shrugs his coat off, hanging it back on the coatrack. He stands before her and watches her take a deep breath before reaching for his hand. And he stays.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Atticus poem;
> 
> "To me  
> she was  
> those final steps  
> the turn around the bend  
> the house  
> with a light on  
> and a fire lit  
> and a faint laugh on a warm wind -  
> she was always  
> my coming home."


End file.
